CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE.
While these dreadful things were happening to Connie, Sue rose with the
dawn, rubbed her sleepy eyes until they opened broad and wide, and went
with all youthful vigor and goodwill about her daily tasks.
First she had to light the fire and prepare Giles's breakfast; then to
eat her own and tidy up the room; then, having kissed Giles, who still
slept, and left all in readiness for him when he awoke, she started for
her long walk from Westminster to St. Paul's Churchyard. She must be at
her place of employment by eight o'clock, and Sue was never known to be
late. With her bright face, smooth, well-kept hair, and neat clothes,
she made a pleasing contrast to most of the girls who worked at Messrs.
Cheadle's cheap sewing.
Sue possessed in her character two elements of success in life. She had
directness of aim and concentration of purpose.
No one thought the little workgirl's aims very high; no one ever paused
to consider her purpose either high or noble; but Sue swerved not from
aim or purpose, either to the right hand or to the left.
She was the bread-winner in the small family. That was her present
manifest duty. And some day she would take Giles away to live in the
country. That was her ambition. Every thought she had to spare from her
machine-work and her many heavy duties went to this far-off, grand
result. At night she pictured it; as she walked to and from her place of
work she dwelt upon it.
Some day she and Giles would have a cottage in the country together.
Very vague were Sue's ideas of what country life was like. She had never
once been in the country; she had never seen green fields, nor smelt, as
they grow fresh in the hedges, wild flowers. She imagined that flowers
grew either in bunches, as they were sold in Convent Garden, or singly
in pots. It never entered into her wildest dreams that the ground could
be carpeted with the soft sheen of bluebells or the summer snow of wood
anemones, or that the hedge banks could hold great clusters of starry
primroses. No, Sue had never seen the place where she and Giles would
live together when they were old. She pictured it like the town, only
clean--very clean--with the possibility of procuring eggs really fresh
and milk really pure, and of perhaps now and then getting a bunch of
flowers for Giles without spending many pence on them.
People would have called it a poor dream, for Sue had no knowledge to
guide her, and absolutely no imagination to fill in details; but, all
the same, it was golden in its influence on the young girl, imparting
resolution to her face and purpose to her eyes, and encircling her
round, in her young and defenseless womanhood, as a guardian angel
spreading his wings about her.
She walked along to-day brightly as usual. The day was a cold one, but
Sue was in good spirits.
She was in good time at her place, and sat down instantly to her work.
A girl sat by her side. Her name was Mary Jones. She was a weakly girl,
who coughed long and often as she worked.
"I must soon give up, Sue," she panted between slight pauses in her
work. "This 'ere big machine seems to tear me hall to bits, like; and
then I gets so hot, and when we is turned out in the middle o' the day
the cold seems to strike so dreadful bitter yere;" and she pressed her
hand to her sunken chest.
"'Tis goin' to snow, too, sure as sure, to-day," answered Sue. "Don't
you think as you could jest keep back to-day, Mary Jones? Maybe you
mightn't be seen, and I'd try hard to fetch you in something hot when we
comes back."
"Ye're real good, and I'll just mak' shift to stay in," replied Mary
Jones. But then the manager came round, and the girls could say no more
for the present.
At twelve o'clock, be the weather what it might, all had to turn out for
half an hour. This, which seemed a hardship, was absolutely necessary
for the proper ventilation of the room; but the delicate girls felt the
hardship terribly, and as many of them could not afford to go to a
restaurant, there was nothing for them but to wander about the streets.
At the hour of release to-day it still snowed fast, but Sue with
considerable cleverness, had managed to hide Mary Jones in the warm
room, and now ran fast through the blinding and bitter cold to see where
she could get something hot and nourishing to bring back to her. Her own
dinner, consisting of a hunch of dry bread and dripping, could be eaten
in the pauses of her work. Her object now was to provide for the sick
girl.
She ran fast, for she knew a shop where delicious penny pies were to be
had, and it was quite possible to demolish penny pies unnoticed in the
large workroom. The shop, however, in question was some way off, and Sue
had no time to spare. She had nearly reached it, and had already in
imagination clasped the warm pies in her cold hands, when, suddenly
turning a corner, she came face to face with Harris. Harris was walking
along moodily, apparently lost in thought. When he saw Sue, however, he
started, and took hold of her arm roughly.
"Sue," he said, "does you know as Connie came back last night?"
"Connie?" cried Sue. Her face turned pale and then red again in
eagerness. "Then God 'ave heard our prayers!" she exclaimed with great
fervor. "Oh! won't my little Giles be glad?"
"You listen to the end," said the man. He still kept his hand on her
shoulder, not caring whether it hurt her or not.
"She come back, my purty, purty little gel, but I 'ad tuk too much, and
I were rough on her and I bid her be gone, and she went. She went to
Father John; _'e_ were kind to her, and 'e were taking her to you, w'en
some willain--I don't know 'oo--caught her by the arm and pulled her
down a dark alley, and she ain't been seen since. Wottever is to be
done? I'm near mad about her--my pore little gel. And to think that
I--_I_ should ha' turned her aw'y!"
Sue listened with great consternation to this terrible tale. She forgot
all about poor Mary Jones and the penny pie which she hoped to smuggle
into the workroom for her dinner. She forgot everything in all the world
but the fact that Connie had come and gone again, and that Peter Harris
was full of the most awful despair and agony about her.
"I'm fit to die o' grief," said the man. "I dunno wot to do. The
perlice is lookin' for her 'igh an' low, and---- Oh Sue, I am near off
my 'ead!"
Sue thought for a minute.
"Is Father John looking for her too?" she said.
"W'y, yus--of course he be. I'm to meet the perlice again this
afternoon, an' we'll--we'll make a rare fuss."
"Yer'll find her, in course," said Sue. "W'y, there ain't a doubt," she
continued.
"Wot do yer mean by that?"
"There couldn't be a doubt," continued the girl; "for God, who brought
her back to us all, 'ull help yer if yer ax 'Im."
"Do yer believe that, Sue?"
"Sartin sure I do--I couldn't live if I didn't."
"You're a queer un," said Harris, he felt a strange sort of comfort in
the rough little girl's presence. It seemed to him in a sort of fashion
that there was truth in her words. She was very wise--wiser than most.
He had always respected her.
"You're a queer, sensible gel," he said then--"not like most. I am
inclined to believe yer. I'm glad I met yer; you were always Connie's
friend."
"Oh yus," said Sue; "I love her jest as though she were my real sister."
"An' yer do think as she'll come back again?"
"I'm sartin sure of it."
"Turn and walk with me a bit, Sue. I were near mad w'en I met yer, but
somehow you ha' given me a scrap o' hope."
"Mr. Harris," said Sue, all of a sudden, "you were cruel to Connie last
night; but w'en she comes back again you'll be different, won't yer?"
"I tuk the pledge this morning," said Harris in a gloomy voice.
"Then in course you'll be different. It were w'en yer tuk too much that
you were queer. W'en you're like you are now you're a wery kind man."
"Be I, Sue?" said Harris. He looked down at the small girl. "No one
else, unless it be pore Connie, iver called me a kind man."
"And I tell yer wot," continued Sue--"ef ye're sure she'll come back--as
sure as I am--she----"
"Then I am sure," said Harris. "I'm as sure as there's a sky above us.
There now!"
"And a God above us," said Sue.
The man was silent.
"In that case," continued Sue, "let's do our wery best. Let's 'ave
iverything nice w'en she comes 'ome. Let's 'ave a feast for her, an' let
me 'elp yer."
"Yer mean that yer'll come along to my room an' put things in order?"
said Harris.
"Yes; and oh, Mr. Harris! couldn't yer take her a little bit of a
present?"
"Right you are, wench," he said. Harris's whole face lit up. "That _be_
a good thought!" He clapped Sue with violence on the shoulder. "Right
you be! An' I know wot she've set 'er silly little 'eart on--w'y, a
ring--a purty ring with a stone in it; and 'ere's a shop--the wery kind
for our purpose. Let's come in--you an' me--and get her one this wery
instant minute."
The two entered the shop. A drawer of rings was brought for Harris to
select from. He presently chose a little ring, very fine, and with a
tiny turquoise as decoration. He felt sure that this would fit Connie's
finger, and laying down his only sovereign on the counter, waited for
the change. Sue had gone a little away from him, to gaze in open-eyed
wonder at the many trinkets exhibited for sale. Notwithstanding her
excitement about Connie, she was too completely a woman not to be
attracted by finery of all sorts; and here were scarves and laces and
brooches and earrings--in short, that miscellaneous array of female
decorations so fascinating to the taste of girls like Sue. In this
absorbing moment she forgot even Connie.
In the meantime, in this brief instant while Sue was so occupied, the
man who served turned his back to get his change from another drawer. He
did this leaving the box with the rings on the counter. In the corner of
this same box, hidden partly away under some cotton-wool, lay two
lockets, one of great value, being gold, set with brilliants. In this
instant, quick as thought, Harris put in his hand, and taking the
diamond locket, slipped it into his pocket. He then received his change,
and he and Sue left the shop together.
He noticed, however, as he walked out that the shopman was missing the
locket. His theft could not remain undiscovered. Another instant and he
would be arrested and the locket found on his person. He had scarcely
time for the most rapid thought--certainly no time for any sense of
justice to visit his not too fine conscience. The only instinct alive in
him in that brief and trying moment was that of self-preservation. He
must preserve himself, and the means lay close at hand. He gave Sue a
little push as though he had stumbled against her, and then, while the
girl's attention was otherwise occupied, he transferred the locket from
his own pocket to hers, and with a hasty nod, dashed down a side-street
which lay close by.
Rather wondering at his sudden exit, Sue went on. Until now she had
forgotten Mary Jones. She remembered her with compunction. She also knew
that she had scarcely time to get the penny pies and go back to
Cheapside within the half-hour. If she ran, however, she might
accomplish this feat. Sue was very strong, and could run as fast as any
girl; she put wings to her feet, and went panting down the street. In
the midst of this headlong career, however, she was violently arrested.
She heard the cry of "Stop thief!" behind her, and glancing back, saw
two men, accompanied by some boys, in full pursuit. Too astonished and
frightened to consider the improbability of their pursuing her, she ran
harder than ever. She felt horrified, and dreaded their rudeness should
they reach her. Down side-streets and across byways she dashed, the
crowd in pursuit increasing each moment. At last she found that she had
run full-tilt into the arms of a policeman, who spread them out to
detain her.
"What's the matter, girl? Who are you running away from?"
"Oh, hide me--hide me!" said poor Sue. "They are calling out 'Stop
thief!' and running after me so hard."
Before the policeman could even reply, the owner of the pawnshop had
come up.
"You may arrest that girl, policeman," he said roughly. "She and a man
were in my shop just now, and one or other of 'em stole a valuable
diamond locket from me."
"What a shame! I didn't touch it!" said Sue. "I never touched a thing as
worn't my own in hall my life!"
"No doubt, my dear," said the policeman; "but of course you won't object
to be searched?"
"No, of course," said Sue; "you may search me as much as you like--you
won't get no stolen goods 'bout me;" and she raised her head fearlessly
and proudly. The crowd who had now thickly collected, and who, as all
crowds do, admired pluck, were beginning to applaud, and no doubt the
tide was turning in Sue's favor, when the policeman, putting his hand
into her pocket, drew out the diamond locket. An instant's breathless
silence followed this discovery, followed quickly by some groans and
hisses from the bystanders.
"Oh, but ain't she a hardened one!" two or three remarked; and all
pressed close to watch the result.
Sue had turned very white--so white that the policeman put his hand on
her shoulder, thinking she was going to faint.
"She is innocent," said in his heart of hearts this experienced
functionary; but he further added, "It will go hard for her to prove
it--poor lass!"
Aloud he said:
"I've got to take you to the lock-up, my girl; for you must say how you
'appened to come by that 'ere little trinket. The quieter you come, and
the less you talk, the easier it 'ull go wid you."
"I have nothink to say," answered Sue. "I can't--can't see it at all.
But I'll go wid yer," she added. She did not asseverate any more, nor
even say she was innocent. She walked away by the policeman's side, the
crowd still following, and the owner of the pawnshop--having recovered
his property, and given his address to the policeman--returned to his
place of business.
Sue walked on, feeling stunned; her thought just now was how very much
poor Mary Jones would miss her penny pies.